Chapter Text
God forbid a man wants to read web novels instead of actually living his life.
The thing is, when you are a salary man working on contract, God is your boss and he does forbid it.
So here he was, bowing at a perfect ninety degrees wondering if there's a point in anything anymore. He didn’t know how much time he spent in the same position, all he knew was that everything was Han Myungoh’s fault.
He hadn’t done anything wrong this time, he was, for once, on time with his reports, had arrived early, he even managed to be more invisible than he already was. But Han Myungoh was in a bad mood and decided to make it Kim Dokja’s problem. So, when he spent five more seconds than socially acceptable in the break room, hell broke loose.
'I hope the next time Yoo Sangah spikes his drink she chooses something that'd make his tongue fall off' he thought.
By the time the man showed mercy and let him go (although that may be less because he was feeling generous and more because he had almost lost his voice,) his back was killing him more than the idea of keeping that job and his hears had lost about fifty percent of his hearing capacity. The only good thing about the scolding was that it took long enough to reach the end of his working hours, so he got to leave hell for the little piece of heaven that was his one-bedroom apartment, his half a cup of noodles, and his web novels.
He didn’t waste a second, just grabbed his things and exited the building to start making his way for the train station along with all the other slaves of capitalism.
On the way, Kim Dokja ignored everything that had occurred and took out his phone excitedly. A few hours prior, the last chapter of his favorite novel was released, in fact, it was that very same novel why he stayed those extra five seconds in the break room (right before the devil had appeared,) but he wasn’t able to read too much into it at the moment because, well, you know. He immediately opened the tab where he had it and proceeded to pretend reality was a lie and the pages of this trashy, poorly written, painfully slow paced, excuse of literature, were the only truth.
And to Kim Dokja, they were. He started reading the story in his late teens and it had been the only thing that kept him going since then. Which is kind of sad when you hear what it’s about. Yes, he knows it isn’t Tolkien, or Shakespeare but hey, it isn’t fanfiction either. Or so he thinks.
It's placed on vague fantasy setting, allegedly historical but had way too many modern elements to be called that, and the plot... What is there to say about it? You can already tell from the title "Three ways to survive the king." Long story short, Lee Seolwha, an ethereal winter beauty with brains that could put the equivalent of a medical Einstein to shame and a heart of gold, falls in love with the broody, moody, clearly needs at least a decade worth of therapy, protagonist Yoo Joonghyuk, the king. This tale narrates how Yoo Joonghyuk goes from an illegitimate child to the monarch using the most gruesome, not mean for the weak of heart, way you can think of, to avenge her mother who was raped twice and then murdered by the previous king, and protect his sister Yoo Mia. Very tragic, very sad, and so very addictive to Kim Dokja.
In fact, this man was the whole reason he keeps on reading. You see, the author might be terrible at writing, but God were they good at describing, (and God did they spend whatever talent they had left to describe Yoo Joonghyuk). But don’t get him wrong, Kim Dokja was there for the plot and for the plot alone.
And if the plot made him giggle and kick his legs like a high school girl with a male modeling magazine then that was no one’s problem but his own.
So yes, Kim Dokja was giddy with anticipation, because surely surely Yoo Joonghyuk and Lee Seolhwa will finally get together after three thousand chapters of slow burn romance and sexual tension, and they will get married, have children, and live happily ever after. With that wretched curse being broken and the kingdom living in peace and happiness.
Yeah, right.
Kim Dokja stopped in his tracks, his phone in hand and the most horror-stricken expression a human could make plastered on his face.
‘What?’ he thought while his eyes reread the words time and time again. ‘No, this cannot be the end.’ In front of him, the narrative that was his reason to live for so long decided to turn on him and stab him on the back.
And then, a series of things happened that changed his life.
First, was the warning.
“Dokja-ssi! Watch out!” came a scream behind him. He looked back and his eyes found those of Yoo Sangah, his colleague.
Then was the light.
He caught it from the corner of his eyes and instinctively searched where it came from. There, right in front of him, an enormous truck, that he was sure didn’t have permission to drive in the area, was charging against him.
And finally, was the crash.
Pain struck him from his side, the sensation of metal colliding with skin, and the sound of people screaming was everything he could feel.
Then everything went black.
Kim Dokja’s last thought was ‘fuck you too, universe.’
…
He woke up, surprisingly, and sat on his bed. Wet with sweat and hyperventilating, not so surprisingly.
‘What happened?’ His hands jumped to his side, right where the crash occurred, but there was nothing there, no pain, no wounds, nothing.
He tried to even his breathing, tried to calm down and think clearly. Was it a dream? A nightmare? But it felt so real, and, as far as he knew, you can’t feel pain while dreaming. Can you?
He looked around, trying to search for anything resembling an explanation. What he found instead was a room too fancy for his poor wallet and malnourished organs to afford.
He narrowed his eyes. It didn’t look like it belonged to Corea, or to the modern era at that.
His gaze lowered to where he was resting, and his mind blanked because what. His hand graced the sheets, and he swore he was touching a cloud. He bounced on the mattress, and he actually flew one centimeter in the air, like what. Not only that, but the bed was E.N.O.U.R.M.O.U.S, maybe even half his apartment.
‘What the fuck’ he thought unnerved and then suspicion entered his mind. ‘No way.’ He got up and without a second to spear ran to the whole-body mirror nearest to him (, he didn’t run, more like, fast walked because he would rather die than do exercise). And there he was, him, himself, his body, his face, his… Wait, no, where are the black bags under his eyes that had become his oldest and most trusted confidant with how long he had them.
He scrutinized his face frantically, searching for any other difference. And he found them. His hair was soft and shiny, his skin glowed with the obvious signs of a healthy routine, his cheeks were not sunken with the telltale of running on one meal per day (if he’s lucky) and his clothes were made of silk silk. In retrospect, he looked like a version of himself that has never known suffering.
‘Well, shit.’ Kim Dokja has read his fair share of trash, okey? has wasted hours trying to understand how stupid you can be to create horseshit and have the audacity of publishing it. His repertory of clichés, bad narrative, and repetitive plots was, to put it simply, extense. So, of course, the whole “transmigrated to the novel I been reading” cliché has not escaped him. But never in his twenty-eight years of living did he think he would be the subject of said plot.
‘Fuck.’
He took a step back and started cursing on his mind. This had to be a joke, a terrible, not funny joke.
He examined the room for hidden camaras or microphones, but there was nothing except everything a pompous, filthy rich, catholic could want. No, really, there was an actual collection of crosses and rosaries, heck, there was a veil decorated with crosses sew on golden tread, like, how much of a believer can you be?
Okey, so, as much as didn’t want to admit, the most possible and impossible explanation is transmigration. He was still in a sort of denial but decided to follow the steps he had seen every protagonist of this trope follow.
One: Investigate in what novel you’ve transmigrated to.
As if on cue, a knock was heard. “Your Grace Kim, breakfast is ready.” Said a feminine voice, cold and stoic.
‘Kim? How many Kims do I know?’ Let’s see, he had read about many characters, but Kims? Only three, (that he can remember right now.) One was about an engineering student who was transmigrated as a villain and later became a state developer, but he was described as horrible and ugly beyond compare and he wanted to believe he was not that ugly, plus his new name was Frontera, he was sure. The other was about transmigration as well, but he became a red head and was a Cale Henituse so that’s a no as well. The only other “Kim” he remembered was from the novel he was reading before he died (or at least he thinks he died) and he was- he stopped his train of thought.
‘Fuck.’
“Saint Kim, I shall pass” said the voice and promptly entered the room.
Kim Dokja flinched and looked at a girl wearing a servant’s uniform, his head low and his stand guarded. “Your Grace, we are here to prepare you.” She said, without looking up. Behind her were two other maids.
‘FUCK.’
Okey, so here’s the thing, the novel had for the first two thousand chapters or so a minor villain whose whole purpose was to get on the way of the female lead, be a brat, be hated by every reader, and be killed by the protagonist.
Saint Kim, the pampered puppet of the church. To summarize it, his relatives abandoned him in the nearest orphanage when his mother killed his father (and then was executed for having done so,) where he was bullied by the children and caretakers for being a murder’s son, (not resembling someone’s life at all.) But then it turned out he had healing magic capable of breaking curses and creating miracles where he could heal people at death’s door. Anyway, he is taken to the church where he was said to be God’s gift, was taught the ways of religion, and blah blah. He was made “the Saint,” whose duties consisted of reciting the sermons, praying for the country’s welfare, healing the poor, hearing confessions, and acting as the vasal of God, like a Father. That was, of course, before he met the protagonist.
“Your grace, if you could please allow us to bath you.” The voice of the first maid to enter, chilling despite how melodic it was, brought him back to reality.
Excuse you? “Ah, there is no need, thank you” he said politely. Yeah, no, he didn’t want a bunch of strangers to not only see him naked, but to actually touch his naked body.
The maid twitched, annoyed. “Your grace, as I have told you before, it is protocol to prepare you for the day, and no, it doesn’t matter how much you are saving yourself for the king.” She said it the way someone who repeated the same thing a hundred times would say it.
Kim Dokja frowned. Who is saving himself for who? Not him, that’s for sure. He still didn’t feel like being bathed like a goddam baby though, thank you very much. “I see, but I still want to have privacy while bathing you can… assist me by dressing me after.” He smiled while feeling stupid. Here he was, talking like he was someone, acting like he was someone when he was not.
The maid raised an eyebrow, but didn’t object, so he went to the door he hoped was the bathroom and closed the door.
The bathroom was bigger than his entire apartment.
…
When he was done, (finally, the amount of lotions and bullshit inside made him dizzy. In the end he chose the scent he liked the most and use it for everything,) he reentered his room where he was greeted by the waiting maids and then prepared for the day. You know, like a toddler.
(He could feel their silent judgement for his choice of scent.)
He was dressed in a black robe with a high collar and buttons going down till his chest. It was modest, it hid his figure and gave him an air of dignity. Then he was presented with two different veils: The first was the one he found before, white with golden crosses; the second was the same but in black. If this is the novel he was thinking about, then…
“How is the weather outside?” He asked, glancing at the maid.
“The storm continues” she answered without blinking.
Outside the sky was clear and the sun was shining. So, this is the novel I’ve been reading. “The black one.”
The maids accommodated the vail to cover his face and trail behind him. Then they went away.
“How is the weather outside” was the way Saint Kim would ask if the war was still on going, and the maid that served him, Jung Heewon, who had come with him from the church, would answer “the storm continues” or the “the sun is shining” depending on its state.
Okey, so he was in a novel. There were no more doubts.
second step: Remember everything you can. He was already half through it; the only thing left was his relationship with the king.
Saint Kim fell in love at first sight with the king when he went to ask for God’s blessing before departing to war and threw the greatest tantrum in existence to get to him. How? By stating it was the divine’s order. And normally the protagonist would have just killed the annoying brat, but he couldn’t. His rather… extravagant way of raising to the crown left the people feeling restless and defying the church would be the final straw to rise a rebellion, which he couldn’t afford at the moment. So, he agreed to an engagement. But that didn’t mean he didn’t get him executed the moment he could.
And now Kim Dokja was that Saint.
“Fuck you too, universe.”
………………….
“Don’t you think the saint was acting strange today?” Asked one of the maids after exiting Kim Dokja’s room.
“You noticed too? He seemed kind of… mature today, don’t you think?”
“Yes, yes, normally he would be wondering about the King and pestering us about accessories or scents that may be of his liking.”
“Do you think he has changed his mind about the engagement?”
“Please, the Saint is probable thinking of a ploy to get his attention, again.”
“Mmm, maybe. Between the two of us, I believe this is God’s punishment for all the King’s murder.”
“Ah! I never thought it like that, you may be right, after all, the Lord is wise in his plans.”
“You are right, although it’s better if the King or his attendants don’t hear our words.”
“Yes, yes, you are right. I should watch my mouth.”
Jung Heewon, who was following not far from the two maids, thought to herself ‘is this really God’s plans?’
…
Step three: Decide what to do.
He didn’t feel like dying Saint Kim’s death. And he had nothing in the real world worth searching for a way back. So, what to do.
Normally. The protagonist in these types of plots would try to do something they never could in the real world, using the novel as a second chance. So, what is something he never got to do?
His thoughts jumped to the last chapter of a certain novel. Yes, his greatest desire was to see the ending of the story he loved the most. This story’s ending. But he never got to do it, turns out, the author had decided to cancel it, so there was never a conclusion.
What’s more, although he cherished every word of the novel, there were so many things he wished were different.
“Your Grace, breakfast awaits you.” Was heard from behind the door.
Kim Dokja recognized the voice as that of Jung Heewon. One of the things he wanted to change.
In the novel, she was Saint Kim’s lady in waiting, but since she wasn’t from noble lineage she was instead called a maid. Sha was strong, fierce, had a sense of justice that could rival heaven itself, and was described to be incredibly capable with the sword. But she never got to wield one, as she was a servant, and a woman at that, she was forbidden from doing any type of exercise or leaving Saint Kim’s side. In fact, she never got to be seen by the protagonist, so when the time for the saint’s execution came, she was beheaded with him by the hands of Yoo Joonghyuk.
How unfair. Kim Dokja couldn’t help but think it was such a waste of a great character.
He got up from the bed and opened the door. “Jung Heewon, God has chosen to speak to me on this day.” He said with a bright smile.